


Two New Hearts (or, These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends)

by gentlesleaze



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 17:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18196913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlesleaze/pseuds/gentlesleaze
Summary: After Paris' attack and with the fate of Verona hanging in the balance, Rosaline and Benvolio work together to save their city and the people they love, including each other.





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> This is a more canon-compliant version of the post-series fic I wrote a while back, with more concentration on tying up multiple storylines with a few direct callbacks to the source material. 
> 
> The title is taken from the book’s summary—“Two new hearts. Same two families.”—and the subtitle is what I imagine the episode title would be if they had concluded the plot.

There was a quiet that settled over them as they arrived at the palace’s secret entrance, hidden deep behind the thick shrubs and thorny bushes of the royal gardens, their distance from the pandemonium in the wake of Paris’ coup made tangible as the screaming panic from the city streets were but echos now. They were welcomed by several guards and stewards, all at the ready to lift the injured Prince from both their shoulders and bring him to a small, sheltered room.

A feeling of relief washed over Benvolio — the likes of which only came second to the solace he felt at being spared the guillotine’s blade — to know they had made it to this haven, alive and without incident. To know that Escalus, although in a grave state, still breathed, and that no harm had come to Rosaline on their journey from the main square, through the church, down shadowed alleyways and abandoned tunnels all leading to back to the most secure place in all of Verona.

He allowed himself to slow down, to no longer walk at a brisk pace, or strain his limbs with the exertion of holding his sovereign upright while looking in all directions at once to detect any oncoming threat. Rosaline, however, remained on high alert, following closely behind the band that surrounded Escalus. And as exhausted as he was, Benvolio would not leave her side.

Before they could even enter the designated quarters, the door was thrust open and Escalus was ushered in with practiced efficiency — a procedure likely perfected after the bombing at their betrothal not two weeks prior. At the other end of the hall, Benvolio could see Princess Isabella marching towards them, a rapidly moving flash of spiked gold and quaffed hair emerging from an armored group of men.

Isabella pushed past the courtiers and soldiers and maids to the foot of the bed where Escalus was being gently laid down, and upon spotting Rosaline, took her hand and pulled her along with her. The young Montague watched on as both women’s clasped hands shook with the force of their grip, only moving aside to allow for a man in slate-colored robes to examine the Prince.

At the behest of the physician, the room was cleared out, and Benvolio glimpsed back at Rosaline one last time — her expression a pained mixture of worry and hopefulness — before allowing himself to be escorted back out into the hall.

His longing to be with her in such a dire situation was a powerful thing, manifesting itself as an ache in his chest and a tingling in his fingertips. But he could be of no use to her for the time being, he knew, and so sought distraction to keep his own worry at bay.

He felt lightheaded as he walked, his body weak from surviving off the paltry rations of days-old bread and murky water for the past few days (or weeks, or months, it all felt the same). Here in this obscure section of the palace, he felt somewhat claustrophobic: the ceiling was lower, the passageway narrow and drab, and the only light came from thin niches that revealed the barest of overcast sky.

Benvolio assumed he had truly lost his wits when he registered the indistinct chatter and clamoring that resonated off the stone walls, until he turned the corner to see a throng of people bustling about in the foyer. Frightened, anxious citizens, it seemed, had been given sanctuary from the dangers outside. Guards blockaded the tall, gilded doors, while the palace staff scurried about, fetching bandages and tending to the injured.

Benvolio found himself standing witness to a great generosity and compassion from a city who had been ready to let him die for the sins of another. The resentment which had bore itself into his gut began to fade the longer he observed, and Benvolio felt determined to not let it take root within in. _There is a goodness here worth defending_ , he thought, despite his cynicism at being falsely imprisoned and on the brink of death.

Intent on offering his aid, Benvolio started to make his way forward until he saw a familiar figure approaching him.

Lord Montague stood out easily from the assemblage, a mass of vivid burgundy, somehow untarnished — as though he had only stepped out from a leisurely stroll. His stride was calculated, his cape drifting behind him and the buttons of his vest brazenly reflecting in chandelier’s glare. His uncle neared him like they were cohorts in another scheme to elevate their house; like the past twenty-four hours had never happened, and his blood boiled at the idea.

“Nephew,” greeted Damiano, with a fondness Benvolio had rarely ever heard coming from the man. He knew not why his uncle bothered, for there is no one around for whom to put on the doting façade. “Thank the Lord you’re alright.”

Benvolio gave no response, only presenting his shameless caretaker with a cold stare.

There was a moment’s pause before Lord Montague recovered from the frigid reception. “I’ve been searching for you,” he continued, this time in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. “Much has happened since we last spoke, and I want—”

“I don’t care about what you want,” Benvolio interjected, a growl in his voice that hinted at the fury just beneath the surface. He turned to walk away, before there was more violence in a day awash with enough of it. But Damiano persisted, never one to accept a refusal.

“We need to talk.”

“There are greater concerns than your guilt, Uncle.” Benvolio’s words were clipped, bored almost. “Your time will come soon enough. I would not be so eager for justice if I were you.” It was not a threat, but a warning, and one that finally silenced Damiano. The only semblance of comfort Benvolio had on the matter was the fear he could practically smell coming off his father’s murderer.

The sound of heeled footsteps coming from the hallway behind them broke the tension between the two Montague men, the clicking’s tempo hastening until a gentle hand was felt at his elbow.

“Benvolio,” said Rosaline, with a genuine affection that his uncle could never remotely produce.

The stiffness left his muscles immediately, and he wished he could muster a smile or equally kind reply. He wished she could read the emotion in his eyes, to see that even though they’d been apart for minutes that he was so very happy to have her close again.

“Lady Rosaline, it’s good to see you unharmed.” Benvolio’s foul mood from before came flooding back at his uncle’s words. The man had only ever deemed Rosaline as an object to provide heirs and be cast off thereafter, and Benvolio would not let him play games with someone he cared for so deeply.

Before he could address her again, Benvolio faced Damiano once more, standing between him and Rosaline, his arm extending out marginally, protective and unwavering.

“I suggest you leave.” His deep intonation left no room for argument.

Lord Montague did not protest further, bowing courteously then disappearing into the crowd.

“What was that about?” she asked, confused and a little on edge. He could not blame her.

“A tale for another time,” was all he said. Like he told his uncle, there were greater circumstances at hand.

While he longed to tell her everything — to vent and yell and cry over his family’s unearthed betrayals — there was an equal desire to spare her from it all. Rosaline had enough weighing down upon her, and Benvolio only wanted to alleviate her of that burden, not add to it.

“The Prince?”

“He’s as can be expected,” she answered, deflating a bit as though she has just been reminded. Was that not why she had sought him out? Or had she simply missed him the way did her?

Benvolio turned about fully as she explained how the doctor was able to stop the bleeding, sew the wound, and that while Escalus would recover he needed rest and constant vigilance. As he listened, he took in the state of her for the first time since he had been paraded on stage to the executioner’s block. He could see the gems and fabric of her cloak were stained with blood from where she had held Escalus, red smears against teal, and the beading of her bodice was frayed and askew. Her black curls were similarly awry, and the kohl on her eyelids was smeared. But no bruises or scrapes, thankfully.

She was in the middle of telling him of Escalus’ susceptibility to fever when she gasped and without warning, reached out to touch at a gash on Benvolio’s right arm. He flinched when she made contact with the open lesion, only really becoming aware of it himself. Rosaline pulled her hand away but stepped forward to inspect it. A stray arrow from one of Paris’ men that likely struck him on their way to the palace.

“‘Tis but a scratch,” he joked, though her look when she met his eyes told him she was not amused.

“I don’t know if you’re the luckiest man in all Verona, or the unluckiest.”

“I think myself quite lucky, for I yet live,” he said smoothly.

The corner of Rosaline’s lips ticked up, but her concern was still evident. It was not the intense concern he had seen in her with the Prince, but there was an unease in the way her brow creased and her nostrils flared that showed him she cared. As though she too was being hit with the realization that he was meant to die that day and only barely escaped Paris’ onslaught. Rosaline was too good of a person to have a different reaction, but Benvolio felt a selfish, brief burst of elation at the knowledge that even on the slightest of levels, he mattered.

“You!” she called out, beckoning a servant boy from down the corridor. Rosaline’s demeanor changed then, seemingly paranoid and unnerved. “This man is hurt and needs to be attended to,” she told the page. “Can you take him to be cured?”

The boy nodded, willing but hesitant. It was hard not to recognize Benvolio Montague, traitor to the crown turned pardoned prisoner. But Rosaline would have none of that.

“Do you take issue with helping an innocent man, sir?”

The boy shook his head apologetically. “No, my lady.”

“Benvolio Montague has been cleared of all charges by royal decree. Please treat him as you would any other civilian in need.”

“Yes, my lady.”

The authority with which she spoke moved Benvolio. What he had done to inspire such support he might not ever know. But while Benvolio was grateful for her defense — and she had done so probably more than anyone in his life ever had — he was loathe to be separated from her.

“Capulet, it isn’t necessary. I’m fine—” Suddenly, he was being pulled into a hug, Rosaline’s arms enclosing around his torso and her cheek pressed up against his neck.

He stood there, frozen for a beat before leaning into the embrace. She held him firmly, preventing him from enveloping her completely. She was trying to angle them, he realized, so that her lips were right by his ear.

A shiver ran down his spine as she began to speak, faint as a whisper. “There are spies in the palace,” she warned, and her shiftiness from before now made sense. “Get out as soon as you’re well. Then meet me at sundown, at the place you once followed me to.”

Benvolio’s thumb caressed her side, a wordless signal that he understood. Her breath hitched at the gesture, and she lingered for a second more before disentangling herself from him.

Their faces inches apart, Rosaline’s gaze softened. “I— I’m so,” she started. Tears formed in her eyes but were promptly blinked into submission. “I’m glad you’re here.”

They both smiled. “I am,” he replied on a exhaled laugh. “Thanks to you.”

Neither could look away, caught in a spell as everything else faded away. She glanced at his lips, and he at hers. His heart pounded, memories of metal bars and affirmations of trust clouding his mind.

A forceful cough from the servant boy brought them back to the present, and Rosaline let Benvolio be taken away to be treated, returning to Escalus’ room. He scratched at the skin of his neck, the ghost of her like a brand he hoped would never wane.

 

 

.

 

 

The hour grew late, and the Prince’s temporary quarters were barely illuminated by the melted candles scattered all around. The one by his bedside was almost a stump, but burned bright enough for Rosaline to observe Escalus in repose.

She tapped at the square piece of cloth propped on his forehead, now dried and in need of change. Stretching out her sore limbs as she got up from the chair, Rosaline could see the sun was starting to set through the sliver of window behind the dense curtains that she was advised to keep shut lest someone learn the whereabouts of his royal highness.

A clean strip of gauze was doused in water, rung out and neatly folded as Rosaline returned to where Escalus lay. His breathing was steady, no longer strained or uneven, and she sent a prayer to God in gratitude for his betterment.

“My brother could not be in better care.” Isabella carefully closed the door and joined her friend.

From afar, the Princess embodied composure and poise, her movements graceful and measured. But as Isabella came to stand beside Rosaline, she could see the puffiness of her eyes and discoloration of the skin beneath. A whirlwind of strategizing and crisis management had turned her into a shell, only now brought back to life in the presence of her loved ones.

“Allow me,” she said, offering to take the damp cloth from Rosaline and administer it herself. “Any news of his progress?”

“He is well, Your Grace.” Isabella huffed at the formality, which Rosaline meant as no disrespect. It was a hard habit to break. “He sleeps peacefully, and the nurse changed his dressings not an hour ago.”

“He fares better than Verona,” she lamented.

The Princess had accomplished more than anyone — even more than Escalus could — to safeguard the city from beyond its barriers and within. The fact they were not engulfed in fire or at the absolute mercy of Paris and his horde was a testament to that. But Isabella had a tendency to focus on her failings instead of her successes, to discern where more could have been done. She and Rosaline were alike in that way.

“The archers and raiders have been chased away,” Isabella added, as a statement of fact rather than a boast of her achievement. “But Paris’ army still advances. I’m told he plans to stage a bigger attack tomorrow.”

“Then there’s still hope,” Rosaline reassured. Isabella was perched on the bed’s edge, dabbing at her brother’s temple. “Who was it that told you of Paris’ plans?”

“The General,” she answered slowly, perplexed that Rosaline should ask. “His men scouted the perimeter and saw the Mantuan army stationed not a full day’s ride from here. It takes no scholar to predict his next maneuver. Why, do you know something?”

Rosaline took a step towards her, words hushed despite the room being devoid of anyone but them.

“When I was held in Paris’ camp, he told me he had his people everywhere, including here.” She was uncertain if Isabella finally believed her story of her time spent past Verona’s borders (even with the Count a proven imposter, the Princess was a hard woman to convince) but she could not let the information go unexpressed. “Be mindful of who you keep around you.”

“Of course, Rosaline. It’s what I have done my whole life.” Isabella spoke with a palpable sadness that could only come from relaying the deepest of truths. “But I thank you, dear friend. I do not know what I would do without you.”

“I only do what is right.”

“A rarity in this place,” replied Isabella. _A rare thing in this city indeed_ , thought Rosaline.

 _Benvolio._ The time for their rendezvous was fast approaching, but Rosaline needed to know what to expect come morning. “What can be done before Paris strikes?”

“I’ve sent word to our allies, but their troops may come too late. Paris’ lands are vast, and his purse vaster. Our best chance is to rally as many of our men — soldiers, commoners, anyone who is able — to increase our numbers.”

“Capulets and Montagues,” Rosaline concluded. “If the houses fought as one, we could fend him off.”

“Were it that simple.” The Princess sighed, her disposition morphing from frustrated pragmaticism to something solemn. “Lord Capulet is nowhere to be found,” she said carefully, trying to shield Rosaline from the unknown fate of her uncle. “Your house is without its leader, and the Montagues are reluctant to act while the Capulets do not.”

Both of them know there is more to their lack of cooperation. Lords from both factions may drip honey-coated compliments and avow their allegiances, but it was a tall order to ask them to accept Isabella, a woman, as their acting sovereign. Still, the foolishness of their petty feuding never ceased to irritate Rosaline. Would it ever come to an end?

“We will get our houses to come together, Benvolio and I,” Rosaline affirmed confidently. Though she knew not how they would unite their families in battle, she had faith they could find a way. What choice did they have? “You may count on us.”

The assertion took Isabella by surprise for its inclusion of the Montague heir. “Can he be counted on?” Her question held within it an unusual self-doubt, an indication that she understood how very wrong her and brother had been about him. “Could a man ever truly fight for the sake of those who condemned him?”

“Was it not that same man who helped bring Escalus here?”

Isabella looked back at him, morosely recalling the anguish at beholding her sibling fall upon the wooden planks of the square, his hands crimson with his own blood. How she was instantly rushed away and out of his line of sight, frantically pleading for someone to save him.

“Benvolio is loyal,” Rosaline said, certain and true.

“And witty, and handsome, if I remember,” Isabella teased, a knowing gleam in her eye. Rosaline felt her cheeks ablaze, suppressing a smirk.

“You can trust him,” she added, bringing the subject back on course.

The Princess seemed satisfied, trusting in Rosaline’s judgement the way she ought to have done from the start. She returned her attentions to Escalus, and Rosaline took the opportunity to gather her cloak and take her leave.

“Thank you, Rosaline. I know not how to repay your fidelity.” Isabella’s eyes held a sincere appreciation, the emptiness from when she first entered the room gone. “There’s a bath I had drawn, in the adjoining chamber.” She pointed to a concealed hatch in the wall. “Use it, please. I can request another.”

Rosaline’s instinct was to decline but thought better of it. She knew not when she’d be able to take one again. Bowing her head in consent, she walked towards the concealed exit, stopping when she heard Isabella utter her name.

“Yes?”

“Would you ever accept him?” she asked forthright. “Escalus.”

“What?” Rosaline was at a loss. Isabella had never shown an interest in the relationship between them. Had Escalus told her of his attempted proposal the day prior?

“My brother loves you, that is no secret. And although it could risk the accord between the noble houses, I know he dreams of one day asking for your hand.”

Rosaline nodded, keenly aware of Escalus’ intentions, and the consequences that came with it.

Isabella omitted her own objections to the match. So much had changed in such a short time, enough to make her reconsider her protestations. Their lives could end at any moment, and she could readily imagine Escalus casting his duty and obligations aside in favor of living his to the fullest.

“If we win and Verona still stands... would you say yes?”

If Rosaline had been asked years ago, before her father’s death and her family’s ruin, before Escalus’ departure and the heartbreak that ensued, her answer would be obvious. Or even mere weeks ago, her heart would’ve leapt at the prospect. But now?

While she had forgiven Escalus’ misguided actions, was that enough to rekindle a romance which never got to bloom?

“I do not know,” she replied. And it was the truth. The Prince’s quarters fell silent, and Rosaline left Isabella to watch over him.

 

 

.

 

 

Leaves crunched underneath his booted feet, his steps methodical and precise lest he trip over the jagged path that led to Rosaline’s home. _The place he once followed her to._

It was dark, the light of the moon his only guide, and it had taken Benvolio some effort to retrace the route Rosaline had taken the first time. The streets sparked only the vaguest of recollection, for he had cared more for where she was going than where he was being lead. And oh how he’d follow her anywhere.

He knew not why she requested to meet here — nor did he require an explanation when Rosaline Capulet was involved — but he could venture a guess. The property, while not expansive, was isolated, even more so now that the estate was abandoned. It resided on the outskirts of town, mercifully excluded from the chaos Paris had wrought, forgotten by all except for its former inhabitant.

Even in its decrepit state, Benvolio could recognize its architectural beauty and charm. A perfect place to spend one’s childhood and share in the company of family. It was no wonder Rosaline missed it so.

The opening to the house was once again obstructed by a dislocated board. A solid heave from him detached the splintered panel from the archway, the decaying vines snapping with little resistance.

Inside was an even starker darkness, and Benvolio walked with his hand pressed to the painted terracotta walls, headed in the direction of the dining room until he saw a muted glow that moved from one side to the other in quick succession.

“Capulet?”

There, startled mid-pace with a candle’s flame right below her chin, was Rosaline. “Benvolio,” she sighed, her slack jaw transforming into a toothy smile as she registered his arrival.

She was like a beacon in the pitch-black of night, her person coming into focus as he joined her by the large mahogany table. Her hair was pinned high, wavy tendrils loose at her nape, like that evening in the chapel during their cousins’ elopement. And her dress was modest in comparison to the bejeweled designs befitting of her privileged status; it was made of a plainer material in the signature Capulet blue. It fit her too well to be borrowed, likely taken from her belongings that remained in this place.

“Is all well?” he asked, scanning what he could of her face.

“Yes, worry not,” she assured. “Though I spoke with Princess Isabella and there is much to be done.” Without further preamble, Rosaline began to divulge what she’d learned from her friend, free to do so without prying ears or potential spies in their midst. She told him of enemy forces on the horizon, of a larger battle likely to be waged tomorrow, before pausing abruptly with a tisk and acute cant of her head.

“How are you still bleeding?”

He looked down, spotting a growing blot of red against the tan of his shirt. He schooled his features into nonchalance despite his discomfort, and was unable to curb a groan when she impatiently yanked at his sleeve.

“Did that boy not attend to you?”

“He did, but I left before he could finish,” Benvolio explained. There was evidence of his mending in the cleanliness of his skin, no longer marred with debris and dried blood, and in his spartan but fresh attire. The boy had been kind enough to return the confiscated dagger and coin that had been in Benvolio’s possession, and had methodically taken his tainted clothes to be laundered or discarded or burned, he knew not which. But when the boy took too long to return with medical supplies, Benvolio didn’t hesitate to act. “Your warning gave me cause for suspicion.”

Much of the city’s problems were consequences of ignoring Rosaline’s advice, and he was determined to not make the same mistake.

“I know not how you’ve managed to keep all your limbs attached to your body,” she fussed, though she understood his precautions. “Come, I may have something.”

Rosaline directed them to the central staircase, gliding past him purposefully, totally in her element. At the top of the landing was a bureau with an aged candelabra, and she ignited the few wicks that remained, then handed it to him as he followed her down the hallway, past several doors of varying widths. Some closets, some cupboards, some bedchambers.

Benvolio felt strange being there, as a man alone with a woman; as a Montague in a Capulet home.

“Here,” she announced, stopping in front of one of the wider doors, left ajar. The frame was dusted but absent of the cobwebs that sullied the rest, and the knob was even more resplendent, like it was only just recently handled.

This must’ve been Rosaline’s room.

From his vantage point, he could see the space was loved and lived-in, with multiple bookshelves filled to the brim, a writing desk situated where a vanity would’ve been, and a petite balcony framed by overgrown ivy.

“Is it not improper for a lady to be alone with a man in her chambers?” he said in mock scandal.

She snickered at that, rummaging for more candles while he waited at the threshold. “Not if the man is her betrothed,” she jested in return, dragging out the last word. “Besides, I’m sure half of Verona thinks we’ve done far worse.”

“ _Are_ we still betrothed?” He asked wistfully. The arrangement which had caused them so much grief was like a distant memory. “I would have expected it to be called off the second I was accused of treason.”

The fact that he was able to converse about his arrest so matter-of-factly felt surreal to him still. The unpredictability of their lives was enough to give him whiplash.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said, actually contemplating the topic. “I’ve never been betrothed before.”

Rosaline dumped a tiny sewing kit and a smattering of candles that were at their disposal onto her mattress, dust particles flying upward. Benvolio went to meet her, arranging them on the floor and any nearby surface, as she busied herself with tearing at an extra set of linen sheets.

“It usually happens quietly, when they’re dissolved.” Rosaline paused, regarding him curiously, sections of white bedding grasped in both her hands. “Neither party wants to prolong the embarrassment, so they tend to fade away. Loose ends tied up discreetly.”

He swore he could hear the wheels turning in her head, until, finally: “You speak from experience?”

“I was betrothed once before” he admitted, taking a seat next to her. “To a girl from Padua. It didn’t work out. Obviously.”

There was a glimmer of sourness in his tone, at the remembrance of a shouted reproach interrupting the last cheerful gathering between he, Romeo and Mercutio. But the bitterness did not endure; it couldn’t, not here. Rosaline’s room felt like a cocoon of dim flames and streaming moonlight, where Benvolio would tell her anything, unbidden.

“It’s why I agreed to the Prince’s decree,” he continued. “To make it up to my uncle, for the money lost.”

“Why didn’t it work out?” Not an unfair question, but the moment it was asked, Rosaline became flustered, like she’d crossed a line that for Benvolio, stopped existing long ago. “You don’t have to ans—”

“I did not love her.”

The look on her face was one he wanted to memorize, to sketch on the finest parchment so he could carry it with him the next time he found himself in a dungeon or fleeing into the wilderness. Her expression was tender, her features relaxed after the initial shock of hearing a famed libertine declare such a thing.

“It’s the only reason two people should marry,” he added, challenging the misconception that Benvolio Montague only cared for the taste of wine and pleasures of the flesh. “That, or because a royal proclamation commands them to.”

Rosaline laughed. “Romeo and Juliet would agree with you.”

Surprisingly, the mention of their deceased loved ones did not trigger them into anger or depression. Maybe because it was the first time either of them had spoken of their cousins as living, breathing people instead of tragic figures in the cautionary tale they’d eternally be remembered for, and they were sharing in the memory with the only other person who could thoroughly understand.

“I teased him for it, for getting married,” he said, as Rosaline made to lift the edge of his blouse. He took the hint, raising it past his right arm and draping it over his shoulder. Even in the low light, the bruises on his chest were visible, the swirls of black and blue still sore from where he had been kicked and beaten. But he paid them no attention. “And try as I did to persuade Romeo against it, I was glad for him. For the both of them.”

“I thought it too rushed,” she offered, clearing her throat. Her eyes squinted as she tried to thread a string through the needle. “They’d known each other for, what, a few days? A week at most.”

“Perhaps, but the way he talked about Juliet… she had him spouting poetry” — he chuckled, visions of his lovestruck cousin springing forth in his mind — “and singing the Lord’s praises that such an angel could exist.” Benvolio sobered for a moment, in doleful acceptance of two lives cut too short. “They would’ve been happy.”

He knew Rosaline believed it as well. For all her objections, she had volunteered to bare witness to their union, same as he, and helped keep their matrimony a secret (for all the good it did).

Rosaline unfastened the discolored dressing from his bicep, careful not to hurt him. “Do you think we would know each other, as we do now, had they not…”

Benvolio angled the lone candle he held so that Rosaline could better see, the last layer of bandage removed, her question hanging in the air.

“I believe we would,” he said, but she still did not meet his eyes, his injury likely a welcome distraction from the delicacy of their conversation. “I think we would have been friends.” At that, she did look at him, brow arched in skepticism. “Eventually.”

“We’d certainly see each other whenever they did. You’d follow your cousin, I’d accompany mine.”

“We were an inevitability, then,” he concluded, jokingly. Though deep down, he felt no truer words had been spoken.

The abrasion was not as severe as they’d thought; not nearly as deep or serrated as when it was first discovered. It stung when pressure was applied, but Benvolio has had worse. Rosaline wiped at it cautiously, the pale linen, though dry, effective in cleansing the blood away.

“What else did the Princess tell you?”

“That Paris is stationed at close range,” she repeated to herself, running through the list of important details. “My uncle is nowhere to be found, and the Montagues refuse to fight unless the Capulets do.”

There was a fatigued annoyance in the way she relayed the news; at how, even as the world was ending, their families could find no common ground.

“Of course,” scoffed Benvolio. “At my uncle’s urging, no doubt.” The sway Damiano had over his house was an indomitable thing indeed. “I will speak with him.”

“What... happened between you two, at the palace?”

Benvolio let out a long, full-bodied breath, the headboard creaking with the movement. His shirt sloped against his shoulder, and in his attempt to catch it before it skimmed the cut on his arm, his fingers accidentally brushed Rosaline’s. She stared up at him, noticing the storm in his eyes and the clench of his jaw as he looked away. It was not a subject he could avoid discussing forever.

“My aunt Tessa paid me a visit to my cell, the day of my execution,” Benvolio began, his voice gravelly and hoarse. “She told me of a plot involving her and my uncle, to poison my father.”

Rosaline inhaled sharply, already anticipating the end of his tale. But he needed to say it, to utter the mystery that had been gnawing at him since he’d learned of it to another. To her.

“When I confronted him, he did not deny it. He and my aunt thought their skeletons would die with me,” he went on. Rosaline said not a word, but the intensity of her gaze was ardently felt. “You were right. My family’s only talent is for murder.”

“I was wrong,” she refuted, frizzy coils bouncing as she shook her head. “You’re not like that. You are the best of them, Benvolio.”

Her passion sent a warmth through his heart, and though bone-weary and scarred from their ordeal, he felt stronger through her conviction.

Benvolio hissed as the tip of the needle pierced through the skin around his wound.

Though he tried to bear it, Rosaline’s attempts at stitching caused him too much pain. The needle was too thick, and without the proper tools, or alcohol to numb the area and his senses, she abandoned the pursuit.

“Livia was so much better at this than I.” She wished she had her sister’s steady hand and discipline with thread. She wished her sister was here, safe and out of Paris’ clutches. She wished...

“Do you have a plan?” He asked with a grunt. “To rescue her?”

“No,” she said, massaging her neck and rolling her back, needle and thread packed away. “Not yet.”

“But you know she’s with Paris.”

“She was, the last I heard.” Her inflection was watery and shaky, but she did not succumb to her sorrow. “She could be all the way in Mantua, or God knows where by now.”

“I’d wager she’s not far.” Rosaline turned to him, thrown by his supposition. “A man like that wouldn’t entrust anyone but himself to patrol her.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“At his camp, he kept a tight circle. A group of two, three men who went wherever he did. Those were the only men he ever talked to; the only ones who gave orders to the rest.” Rosaline wrapped a fresh scrap of cotton around his arm, her bandage snug so as to prevent bleeding. “He likes to have control.”

“How do you know all this?” She asked incredulously, astonished Benvolio had somehow become an expert on the traitorous Count.

“I watched them,” he responded, tugging his shirt back down over his torso. “While I was looking for an opening so I could sneak in.”

“You mean when you were captured,” Rosaline said, nonplussed, her version of events clearly different from his.

“No, before.” At her silence, he felt compelled to elaborate. “When I fled the inn, I overheard the soldiers mention Paris’ name, and after the Friar’s warning, I feared he would not bring you home safely. So I followed them, knowing if I found him, I’d find you. It took releasing some of his horses to get his attention, he was so unshakeable. Then Escalus discovered me, Paris played the savior, and that’s when I was captured.”

If he thought his explanation would advance their platication, it appeared it was having the opposite effect. Rosaline sat there, cloth limp in her lap, mouth equally as lax. She was surprised, that much was unmistakable, but there was something more. Like when he had confessed to seeing her kiss with Escalus, or when he’d entreated her afterward to choose a life with the Prince instead of advocating for a lost cause like himself.

“Then to his camp I shall go,” she declared, shaking herself out of her quietude.

“Now? With an entire army standing guard?”

“There is not an army on Earth that can keep me from Livia. If you could sneak in, so can I,” she proclaimed, the spirit of Ares behind every word, and Benvolio pitied anyone that stood in her way.

“Then I’m coming with you. After the battle, we can—”

“No, it cannot wait,” insisted Rosaline. “There’s no telling what could become of her if…” She broke off, unable to verbalize the outcome no one wanted to entertain.

“If we lose, you mean.”

“Or if he does. A loss might embolden Paris even more towards cruelty. And I will not let my sister be exposed to his moods, be they in victory or defeat.”

So it was decided. Benvolio would fight for their city, with or without Montague aid, while Rosaline infiltrated the enemy’s encampment. While the notion of her traveling alone into the lion’s den left him restless, he had to agree it was a smart plan. Obtaining access to the grounds would be easiest when the Mantuan artillery was distracted, and if their campaign served no other purpose, Benvolio could die peacefully knowing he provided the younger Capulet girl the opportunity to be free of her imprisonment.

“We should get some sleep,” said Rosaline, in an attempt to calmly end one conversation and unwittingly opening another. It was a given she would spend the night there, for where else was she to go when the Capulet household was apparently inundated with Paris’ puppets.

But Benvolio? He had no private sanctuary, no family residence he could turn to which didn’t also contain memories of abuse and pain.

(And that was something he would rectify, Benvolio thought. To take back his parent’s home and erase all memory of his aunt and uncle’s corruption).

“I’ll take my leave then.” It was a generous act to have even let a Montague stay for as long as she had, and he did want to take advantage of Rosaline’s hospitality.

He stood up from the bed, his right arm bent and kept immobile so that it may heal. But before he could completely cross in front of Rosaline on his way to the door, a single word stopped him in his tracks.

“Stay.”

She looked like a dream, the flickering candlelight dancing along her rich skin as the brocade curtains billowed on the evening breeze from behind. There was a vulnerability in her offer, like she needed his companionship as much as he did hers, and he could not bring himself to refuse.

“As you wish,” he said, feet planted where they were as Rosaline walked to the other side of the bed.

The whole scene felt pleasantly domestic, like what he had pictured an ideal marriage should be like. Fitting, then, that he should experience it with someone he had grown to love.

“Am I to sleep on the floor again?” he asked kiddingly.

“And undo all my handiwork?” She bantered back. “I think not.”

Rosaline fluffed the pillow that was meant for him, tossing it back into its rightful spot before she untucked her corner of the duvet. Benvolio untied his boots as she slide under the covers, blowing out the wax stumps, then promptly joining her on the bed, above the bedspread.

“Goodnight,” he murmured, unsure if she heard him.

His bruised arm rested between them, hers settling beside it as she adjusted her position. Her bed was just ample enough for two, and their proximity was hard to ignore. Benvolio stared at the ceiling, and though he dared not to glance over, he suspected she did the same. He could feel the covers move as Rosaline flexed her fingers, his own mere millimeters away.

He yearned to take hold of her hand, to be nearer to her for the short time they had before slumber consumed them. It was not the first time Benvolio had shared a bed with a woman — in both the carnal and most literal, innocent respects — but this was different. She meant something different, profound, like he finally and fully understood Romeo’s enamoration and that it was Benvolio’s turn to be teased for it.

Then, as if she read his mind, Rosaline wove her fingers and his together, her touch like a balm and inferno all at once. They had held hands many times before, while pretending to be incurably infatuated in front of diplomats and gathered spectators, but never had it felt so electric.

“Goodnight,” she said, just as softly as he had.

They both fell asleep soon thereafter, the events of the day such that even the aged mattress felt like paradise, the sounds of their breathing a tranquil lullaby that made them forget about the oncoming storm.

 

.


	2. Act II

The first beams of sunlight filtered into her room, the melody of distant chirping and rustling leaves clearing through her groggy haze. There was a brief instance where Rosaline, so at peace and luxuriously sprawled, envisioned the past few years had not happened and she was waking up at home. Livia across the hall, their parents waiting downstairs, and Benvolio…

It was with the memory of last night that she awoke, finding herself in the very center of her mattress. Her eyes shot open at the thought that she might be cuddled so close to a man — to him in particular — but she found herself alone. In the night she must’ve drawn near, but while the sheets still lingered with warmth, Benvolio was gone.

She ought to have objected to him lying so nearby, but as unconsciousness had claimed him, laid stretched out and deflated in absolute exhaustion, Rosaline had felt her own eyes growing heavy. And with Benvolio’s heat at her side, sleep had come swiftly.

A bizarre sense of relief and disappointment filled her at not finding him still there; a simultaneous desire to skirt whatever intimacies may have occurred between them while they slept, and to be greeted with his presence at early light felt in equal measure.

 _Livia would never let me live this down_ , she thought, butterflies in her stomach, and it was with the picture of her sister’s giddy grin that Rosaline finally got up.

Her chambers were a mess of strewn about fabric and candlesticks, but the image was bittersweet. On the rare occasions when Rosaline had been able to steal whatever precious minutes she could in the abandoned property, a pang of sadness always struck her at seeing every table and chair and cabinet draped in cloth and preserved like a museum, as though a family had never existed there at all, nevermind one as animated as hers.

But seeing it now, disturbed by signs of life and an evening spent with a cherished guest, she could not regret what had happened, chaste as it was.

In fact, as Rosaline began tidying up and mending her appearance, she discovered that a part of her wished _more_ had happened between them. She had felt an intense comfort upon seeing Benvolio arrive at the house — such a contrast to when he’d initially done so, before she had considered him a friend — and as they’d sat on her bed, speaking in hushed tones, exchanging loaded glances and baring a little bit more of themselves to one another, she couldn’t help but be reminded of tearful admissions against rusted cell bars, of the feel of his thumb stroking her cheek, of his lips on hers…

It would’ve been imprudent, she knew, for them to spend the night doing anything except plan for the morning’s events — a routine they fell into with such ease despite the unnamed feelings that hung in the air — but for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Rosaline felt that a simple life was possible; one spent reminiscing and conversing about topics major and minor. One where she did not just have to survive her fate, but got to actually live one of her own choosing. And maybe a life which included Benvolio.

Rosaline’s thoughts were halted when she noticed an unfamiliar item on her desk. Walking towards it, she saw a folded piece of paper weighed down by a slender, leather-bound dagger. She unsheathed it, spotting a miniature Montague crest engraved on the blade.

Placing it down on the counter reverently, Rosaline opened the first of two notes. The writing was an elegant script that although scrawled in haste was still legible and precisely ruled. The markings of a meticulous artist, she thought.

“Dearest Capulet,” she read aloud, a smile blossoming as she could practically hear the loftiness of Benvolio’s enunciation. And she could not deny the effect his endearment, however facetiously intended, had on her.

 **_Forgive me for departing so abruptly,_** he went on. ** _But there was much I wanted to get done and I could not bring myself to disturb you. And if I may be honest — and when have we never not been so — I feared I would not have the strength to leave otherwise._ **

**_We both have long journeys ahead, and I wish you did not have to venture upon yours alone. I hope you can make use of what little help I can offer. Accompanying this letter is a drawing of a man who, from my best recollection, I believe could be Paris’ second-in-command._ **

Rosaline proceeded to take the other piece of paper. On it, as promised, was a sketch of an older, stout fellow with a full beard but balding head. She could fathom why such a man would be relegated to the campsite instead of the battlefield, and, upon reading more of Benvolio’s letter, saw he shared in her deduction.

She marveled for a moment at the portrait, at the varying widths and pressure of the lines, at the smudges from where the perfectionist in him had to get the details just right, at the skill and diligence put into aiding Livia, a person whom he had never met.

 **_The likeness may not be the most accurate, as you would be quick to point out,_** he wrote, eliciting a laugh from Rosaline amidst being overwhelmed by his continuing kindness. **_But if it serves in narrowing down your search, then I would consider it my finest work._ **

**_I have no doubt you will succeed in saving your sister, Capulet. Because you’re you and I have never known you to fail, especially when it comes to those whom you_** — and here Rosaline saw the beginnings of a word scratched out and replaced with — **_care for._**

**_I also leave with you my dagger, so that, though I cannot be there with you, perhaps a part of me can. I shan’t be needing it where I’m going._ **

**_I know it is not a lack of faith in Verona’s victory that motivates you, but impatience. I too hold on to the belief that we will prevail, but if we do not meet again, I must tell you: for all that life has taken from me — from the both of us — befriending you has restored what I thought I’d lost forever. There is not a single moment I regret. I had once felt untethered to this place, with no one to stay for, to fight for. To live for. But I believe now I have found it._ **

**_Thank you, Rosaline. For more than you know._ **

**_— Your Montague,_ **  
**_Benvolio_**

 

His letter still elevated, Rosaline slumped into the desk chair, the wood grousing under the sudden weight. She held it delicately at first, the parchment ghosting over her breast as his words settled over her. Infinitely better than a sonnet about the weather.

Rosaline was still astonished at how her opinion of him had changed in a matter of weeks, even mere days. How so much about his character had been revealed to her, and how much she realized she had come to care for Benvolio when confronted, for a second time, with the thought of never having him in her life again. It had been a gradual shift, and though Rosaline could not pinpoint when the shift had occurred, she knew it absolutely had.

A new sense of determination swelled within her, and with a deep breath inward, Rosaline donned her cloak, tucked away Benvolio’s drawing and weapon, and departed for the Capulet palazzo.

 

 

.

 

 

He’d had dreams about this before, he was sure. Or rather, nightmares where he stood in the spacious Montague foyer teeming with noblemen all abuzz with confusion and indignation, their scrutiny and irritation all directed at him and his uncle over being summoned so precipitously.

Benvolio much preferred his dream from the previous night, of an opulent feast attended by himself, his brothers, and a woman whose face was indistinguishable. “Your wife,” was how a drunken Romeo referred to her, while Mercutio lamented being the last bachelor among them. But no matter how hard he tried, Benvolio could not catch her as she had whirled and weaved across the dance floor. He could only perceive black, spiraled hair and turquoise chiffon flowing freely, and that alone was enough to have him waking up with a smirk and lifted spirits.

That, and the sight of Rosaline huddled against his side.

He would’ve been content to watch the rise and fall of her slack body, absorbed in a dream of her own, basking in the illusion of a cozy life, but he knew this headache awaited him instead.

Before the sun had fully dawned, Benvolio had travelled to the Montague estate, pounding on the master suite door and demanding a meeting be called amongst all the members and loyal kin of their house. Now, standing a half-step above the amassed congregation, Damiano addressed whatever individual complaints could be made out, but it was all for show, Benvolio knew. His uncle’s attitude was impassive, infuriatingly diplomatic as if he had no choice but to let their paranoia run amok.

One word from his uncle could compel them all to fight as a united front with the rest of Verona, but it was obvious Damiano had other plans. Why share the glory of triumph with the Capulets when a singular Montague militia could get the job done.

“There is nothing to be done, Nephew,” he concluded with a shrug, a convenient resolution to Benvolio’s request.

“There is always more that can be done,” Benvolio replied brusquely, shoving past his uncle.

He rose another step up, the motion garnering some notice but not enough for a receptive audience. “I know you all feel uneasy,” he said, his volume almost at a shout, finally silencing the crowd. “But now is not the time for debate, but for action. And we must act swiftly.”

“What news of that Capulet toad?” a man at the back of the mob yelled, bypassing Benvolio’s words.

“Lord Capulet will be found and his men will join the royal army, of that I can promise you.”

Grumbling chatter vibrated along the walls at his assurance. “How can you make such a promise?” a different gentleman inquired.

“I have an ally who is already liberating him as we speak,” Benvolio answered, with the utmost confidence in Rosaline. “She will see it done.”

The room erupted in a synchronized hiss at the mention of a ‘she.’ He rolled his eyes at the interruption, growing more and more convinced that the Princess’ troops would probably be better off without Montague reinforcement.

“So it’s true then, that Lord Capulet was taken by Count Paris?”

“Yes, and that is all the more reason why—”

“I heard it was the Capulets who conspired with Count Paris,” yet another figurehead challenged. “For all we know, they could be plotting together and you want us to fight alongside them?”

Benvolio pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a calculated exhale, blocking out the pleased-with-himself aura emanating from Damiano. How many machinations needed to be denounced? How many more pretenses were there for his house’s cowardice? “The Capulets are as much a victim of this attack as we are,” he responded. “You cannot cast blame for the actions of one person—”

Their arguing intensified at Benvolio’s unintended admission of Capulet implication in Paris’ insurrection, but he knew the backlash was unavoidable regardless of what was said. It was a pernicious stew of pride and upheaval and absurdity that was on the brink of boiling over, but Benvolio could not let it.

“Enough!” He roared, his tolerance snapping.

The gathering suddenly came to a halt, no one daring to speak.

“Can you all not see? This is exactly what Paris wants, for our city to demolish itself from within while he claims whatever is left. He has been planting traps for our houses to pit themselves against each other, and we have fallen for every single one.”

Benvolio looked around, making eye contact with as many faces as he could and detecting no signs of further objection.

“I nearly lost my life because of it,” he continued, his voice rattled but no less resolute. “And I may lose my life yet still, but it will be in the pursuit of reclaiming Verona from those whose ambition seeks to destroy it.” At that, Benvolio pointedly glared at his uncle, the patronizing aura from before long gone. “Years of bloodshed, of lost heirs and innocent lives over a petty feud that none of us can even remember the origin of. We are better than what our enemy thinks of us. It has to end, and it ends today.”

Descending to the ground level where everyone else stood, Benvolio walked to the vestibule’s exit. The assembly parted as he passed, and he stopped only to give one last appeal.

“I fight with anyone willing to defend our city, be they Capulet or otherwise. You are welcome to join me, or sit idly by as Mantua conquers what you hold most dear.”

Benvolio spared them no parting glance as he walked toward the main staircase. He had a battle to prepare for and if he had failed in recruiting the Montagues, then so be it.

Just as his fingers touched the cool stone of the banister, he felt a strong grip on his shoulder. “Benvolio, wait.”

He continued up the stairs, jerking himself loose from his uncle’s grasp.

“You cannot put yourself at such a risk,” Damiano urged, and for a fleeting instant Benvolio thought he heard real distress in his tone. “Not after—”

“After you agreed to have me sacrificed to appease the Prince’s treaty?”

Benvolio turned around, jaw set and eyes stern. If he wanted to have this conversation, they would have it, but unlike most of the squabbles and scoldings he’d been subjected to over the years, Benvolio would not yield. Not ever again.

“Odd that now you refuse to honor that treaty. Unless it’s selling point had been my death.”

“Is that what you really think? It grieved me to make that agreement. You are my family, my flesh and blood—”

“Ah, yes, and we both know how much you hate for any harm to come to your family,” Benvolio spat out, looming over Damiano with a barely contained rage. The remainder of their guests had vacated the property, leaving them alone in their confrontation.

Lord Montague’s wounded demeanor was schooled back to one of the composed leader. “There are many schemes at play here. It’s not as simple as waging a last crusade to bring about peace. We have to be smart about this.”

“There is no ‘we,’ Uncle. There is only my father’s house, and the man who thought he could steal it from him. You always told me I had no mind for politics or business, but you never cared about nurturing those skills until the survival of your legacy depended on it. And now the future of the Montague name is my responsibility, not yours.”

Benvolio went one step lower so as to make his subsequent statement as clear as possible.

“You have nothing that isn’t rightfully mine. You’d best hope I don’t make it back alive, because once all this is over, I come for you next.”

 

 

.

 

 

Rosaline looked on from afar as she reached the Capulet residence, maintaining a safe enough distance to keep hidden from any of Count Paris’ informants. Walking along the outskirts of the leafy terrace, she weighed the likelihood that her aunt and uncle would be there, held captive in their very home. Isabella had told her of no other sightings of them, no news of her uncle’s whereabouts other than he simply had not been heard from. She remembered Benvolio’s insight into Paris’ controlling tendencies and reasoned that mentality extended to his cohorts as well.

She ruled out being able to enter the palazzo outright. Years of servitude and abetting Juliet whenever she wanted a late night stroll — or to see a certain man who would become her husband — made Rosaline well versed in the estate’s construction, the only question was where she should concentrate her efforts. She knew she had only one chance at sneaking in before Mantuan spies were at her throat.

And then, it came to her, courtesy of a memory she’d prefer to keep permanently buried.

Rosaline and Livia had only been in Lady Capulet’s employment for a few months, and for two formerly noble daughters, their domiciliary skills were lacking. It took them half a day to complete tasks that the other staff members could finish within an hour, and Rosaline’s temper was even more heightened during those first couple of years as a servant.

Their aunt showed them no leniency, not for the slow pace of her nieces’ work ethic, nor for the nightly sobbing of the newly orphaned girls, and especially not for blunt retorts from someone she considered so beneath her. One night, Giuliana ordered Rosaline to be locked in the basement cellar as punishment for her latest outburst. The walls of the cold, unlit dwelling were so thick that her cries fell on deaf ears.

It was in that basement where they had to be jailed, for Lady Capulet’s cruelty had only ever been matched by Paris and his accomplices.

She waited for a lurking maid to vacate the gardens, then one breach of a crooked fence and severing of a rusted padlock later, and Rosaline was inside the cavern underneath the manor. She jaunted as quickly as she could without the echo of her heels giving her away until she arrived at the alcove that haunted her still.

“Rosaline?” Lord Capulet’s voice carried from behind the door, his eyes futilely attempting to find her though the thin slot in the middle.

“It’s me,” she whispered back, gaze darting from side to side in case their exchange had alerted any lurking emissaries.

“Thank the heavens you’re here. I must warn you, it’s not safe. Count Paris, he—”

“Yes, I know, Uncle.”

Rosaline patted long the door, finally feeling a latch to the left. She pulled with all her might until the eroding bolt was freed. A loud creak reverberated throughout the crypt and Rosaline froze in alarm, sure they’d be discovered.

“It’s alright,” Silvestro reassured. “Their next watch is not for a while yet.”

She ushered him into the slender walkway that lead back outside, and as she did so she spotted her aunt crouched in the corner. Her figure was hard to make out, but from what Rosaline could see, her arms were hunched over her bent knees, like her wrists were bound to the floor.

As she tried pushing her uncle farther towards freedom, he tensed up, refusing to move. “I need to get you out of here,” she implored, hurriedly explaining as succinctly as she could about the imminent threat from Mantua, the disorganization of the Capulet nobles, and his need to rally their house to march with Isabella’s army. He inclined his head, comprehending her insistence, but did not budge.

“And what of Guiliana?” He asked, limping back into the vault. “I cannot leave here without her.”

Lady Capulet rose to her feet, tugging on the corroded shackles. A key was needed to release her, and Rosaline possessed neither the time nor the investment in solving that obstacle. And her aunt's liberties had caused enough trouble already.

“We must,” she said, prodding Silvestro in to the direction of the basement’s exit.

He looked back at her aunt, an apology in his expression. “I will only go if you take this to the Prince.” Rosaline was presented with a letter, its edges crumbled and puckered but still mostly intact. “I drafted this shortly before we were taken,” he explained. “It’s a confession, and pledge of fealty to the crown.”

“Escalus nearly died because of all this, and you think he’ll be swayed by a letter?” From Lord Capulet’s reaction it was evident he had not known of the assassination attempt in the town square. “And it is Princess Isabella who governs Verona now. Her reception will be no more forgiving.”

“If this letter is not received before the fighting is over, there will be no chance for Giuliana’s life.”

Rosaline wanted to deny him outright. She saw no point in even trying, and her aunt deserved to pay whatever price was sought for her crimes, yet her uncle’s advocacy gave her pause. He spoke with a great and unexpected fervor, and though his behavior in the preceding weeks — willfully ignorant at best, selfishly vengeful at worst — could not be overlooked, she agreed to abide this one request.

“I will see it delivered. Now go.”

She watched as he scurried down the passage before grabbing at the hefy cell door to shut it. “And you call me a traitor,” she heard Lady Capulet jeer. “What do you call this?”

“I call it justice,” countered Rosaline, swinging back around without missing a beat. “This is but a fraction of what you deserve.”

“Sweet, self-righteous Rosaline,” her aunt sneered, her cuffs clanging against the iron chains that restrained her. “There may be blood on my hands, but if you leave me here, there will be blood on yours, too.”

“Paris’ people have no trouble killing those who get in their way. If they wanted you dead, they wouldn’t have bothered locking you up.”

“Easy to make justifications, is it not?”

Rosaline stalked forward, nostrils flaring and her stare menacing. “I am _nothing_ like you. The havoc you have wrought has no name, no hope of ever being washed clean. No royal pardon will ever change that. Not in the eyes of Verona, nor mine, nor Livia’s… nor Juliet’s.”

Giuliana surged ahead, trying to clinch the gap between them but stalling just short of reaching her niece. Rosaline did not flinch.

“Your taunts have no power over me,” she said, head held high. “The only thing worse than not doing the right thing, is trying to do the right thing far too late. And mark my words, Sweet Aunt: the worst is yet to come.”

With that, Rosaline withdrew from the cellar room, Lady Capulet’s protestations fading away as she left. Whatever happened to her aunt after this was no longer her problem.

 

 

.

 

 

Benvolio arrived at Verona’s gates alone, clad in his trademark black attire, a sharpened sword, and his father’s armor. He joined the gathered mix of peasants and aristocrats, all on foot while a select few soldiers rode on horseback. He surveyed the span of the outpost, looking at the rows of volunteers. Their equipment was of varied quality and function, their ages just as diverse; truly a meeting of societal class and status as seemingly everyone had come to protect their fair city.

His morale was bolstered when he noticed a band of men wearing a distinct blue color and a familiar sigil embossed on their shields, never imagining he’d be so glad to see so many Capulets. There was strength in their numbers and the sight eased his worriment to a small but appreciated degree. _I knew you would succeed, Rosaline._

The sun shown high in the sky, only a smattering of clouds overcast. With all his hustling and preparation for Paris’ invasion, the midday had arrived sooner than he expected. Benvolio felt overheated in his gear but he wore it proudly. It was an antiquated design, not like the pristine, festooned suit that was custom-made for him for his sixteenth — or was it seventeenth? — birthday. This one was meant to be used and probably had been on a couple of occasions.

Benvolio didn’t have much to remember his father by (or mother for that matter), never questioning why there were so few keepsakes or mementos of his parents in the house he grew up in. He knew now why, with painful clarity, the signs of their existence were kept hidden, and he fancied that if his father had lived long enough to do so, he would’ve passed his armor down to his son.

Benvolio shielded his eyes against the sun’s rays as something in the distance caught his attention. A rider mounted on a steed adorned with purple and gold, flanked closely by royal guards. _Prince Escalus._

The Prince appeared to heed him as well, instructing his horse to canter where Benvolio was stationed. He approached him warily, which Benvolio would find amusing if he wasn’t so confused by his sovereign’s presence there, amazed he had recovered so expeditiously. An entire cavalry at his beck and call, and it was the black sheep of the Montague family that made Escalus skittish? Did he still not believe in Benvolio’s innocence despite his ordinance?

“Lord Benvolio,” Escalus greeted, and upon getting a better look at his face, he realized it was not trepidation but something like shame that caused the Prince to act with such timidity. “Fare thee well?”

Benvolio bowed before him, then answered, “Better than I fared yesterday, Your Grace. I cannot complain.”

Escalus cast his head downward. The reminder of his blindness stung, and while it was Benvolio’s intention to regard him neutrally, he could not help the sliver of rancor from spilling out. Still, he knew an olive branch when he saw one, and it was the closest thing to an apology the Prince would likely ever give to someone like him.

“And you?”

The Prince looked up at the sincere attentiveness in the young Montague’s inflection. There were deep stains under Escalus’ eyes, and his complexion was ashen. He leaned heavily on his saddle and had limited use of his injured arm. But their ruler was a brave and dauntless man who maintained his dignity despite his discomfiture.

“Better than yesterday, indeed.” Both men nodded at one another, a wordless acknowledgement to forget the past, at least until their skirmish with Mantua has reached its conclusion. “Why do you not travel with your brethren?”

Caught off-guard by the question, Benvolio prepared himself to tell the Prince he would be the sole representative of his house, when suddenly he heard a commotion coming from beyond their party.

A red-robed faction of men, comprised of virtually all the lords Benvolio had admonished not an hour ago, melded with the already amassed group. Damiano was at the head of the pack, astride his own horse, of course, and went straight towards Escalus and thus to Benvolio as well.

Lord Montague canted in head in veneration, feathered helmet tucked in the crook of his elbow.

“Uncle, I had not expected—”

“Nonsense, Nephew,” he recovered quickly. “Your speech managed to sway them after all.” His disapproval of their support belied the show of pride in Benvolio. Or was it real? “I only persuaded the outliers. And all are at your command,” he vowed, addressing Escalus.

“I’m glad to hear it,” the Prince replied, scrutinizing Damiano dubiously. “Your men can join the ranks of Lord Capulet, who has already enlisted his services.”

Lord Montague blinked in astonishment. “So he yet lives.”

“I do,” rejoined Lord Capulet from behind his nemesis. Whatever bickering might’ve ensued was quelled by the authoritative bearing of their sovereign.

Escalus wheeled about to face the rest of his subjects. “Hear me, good people of Verona!” His voice boomed as though he was in perfect health, showing no signs of weakness. “For generations, we men have shed each other’s blood. But if we can fight as one; if we can unite against the betrayer who would slay us all, I am certain will be prevail. Are you with me?”

“Aye!” The crowd hollered, arms raised high and pounding salutes creating an earthquake-like uproar.

“Take your positions,” ordered the Prince, and the three men did as they were told. But before Benvolio could tread too far, Escalus blocked his path. “You travel with my brigade. I have need of thee.”

 

 

.

 

 

The palace was not as hectic as it had been before, the chaotic bustling of the day prior was now a purposeful, tunnel-like focus. Servants and emissaries dashed past her as Rosaline made her way to the throne room, her only interference encountered at its entrance.

“Let her pass,” bid Isabella, who was mid-conversation with the gray-haired Mateo. Rosaline heard the tail-end of their conference as she neared them, which involved an inquiry into the timeliness of an urgent dispatch and mention of someone named Helena.

As Mateo retreated, the Princess gave pause at Rosaline’s presentation. She remembered she was no longer dressed like a distinguished lady, but rather what she had looked liked in their youth, in polished but comparatively austere clothing. Not a servant or noblewoman, simply Rosaline.

“To what do I owe the visit?” she asked, lifting a slim, regal finger at an expectant courtier to allow her a moment with her friend. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” said Rosaline, rummaging in her sleeve for her uncle’s card. “But I’ve been asked to give you this.”

Isabella took the note, stiffening when she beheld the Capulet seal. “From Count Paris?”

“From Lord Capulet,” she corrected, though, frankly, it may as well have been from Paris. “He begged that I give it to you, and so I have.”

“You found him.” Isabella’s interest lay less in his well-being and more with the aid he could give to their cause.

“And he will mobilize House Capulet to join your army,” she reassured, answering Isabella’s implied question.

The Princess beamed in relief, squeezing Rosaline’s hand in gratitude. “Then we stand a chance, now that both houses have come to their senses.”

“Both houses?”

“Abbatelli relayed reports of a Montague procession along the main streets. They never were ones to shy away from a spectacle.”

Rosaline tried suppressing the grin she felt pulling at her cheeks, her hope renewed that the efforts of she and Benvolio might actually extinguish the cycle of violence and hatred that had plagued their city. But her contentment was short-lived.

“And what of Escalus?”

Isabella’s features turned serious. “He rides at the front lines.” Rosaline felt her heart constrict, newly distressed over the thought of not only losing one man on the battlefield, but two.

“H-how, why?” she sputtered. She struggled to believe the man who appeared as a ghost to her the previous evening could be well enough to stand upright, let alone go head-first into combat.

The Princess recounted his miraculous recovery, the assiduousness of the palace doctor, his progressive lucidity throughout the night, and how that morning Escalus deemed himself fit to lead their forces against those of Mantua. Rosaline was well-acquainted with the Prince’s stubbornness and so could not fault Isabella for compiling with his wishes, however reckless they may be.

“Then let us pray for his safety.”

Rosaline stepped back as the ansty dignitary returned, sharing one last look of support with Isabella before parting ways. She wiped at a trace of moisture at the corner of her eye and concentrated on her most important mission. Rosaline was in need something specific that she believed the palace could provide.

She watched a maid amble down the corridor, a stack of linen in her folded arms, and followed the woman down to the lower level laundry rooms. If she was to venture into the terrain beyond the city walls, her odds would be significantly higher if she was disguised as a boy, and the palace washrooms were a treasure trove of selection.

Sneaking past the attendants and entering a secluded section, Rosaline began rummaging through the assortment of garments and drapery and bedding, making sure to avoid the piles filled with the soiled clothes of citizens that had been formerly sheltered here. Most of her search only yielded ripped or torn pieces, or items that were just too abundant to convincingly befit her.

By the end of her inspection, she had managed to pilfer some dark hosiery, a flat cap to conceal her lengthy tresses, and a belt to anchor her billowing shirt. Rosaline felt exposed without her bodice and petticoat but she’d have to make do. Her cloak could supplement the coverage she needed.

As she made to creep back out of the servant quarters, her leg got caught on a fallen bedsheet, causing a heap of apparel to topple over. She cursed her clumsiness, taking clumps of garb and haphazardly placing them back in their coffers.

Her hand grazed against a tougher material than what she had come across. Tugging it loose from the pile, she recognized it as a man’s doublet. She knew this particular article well. Brownish-maroon in color with studded shoulders, faded and scratched and missing a patch that used to disclose its Montague lineage.

 _Perfect_.

Rosaline wrapped Benvolio’s broad vest along her chest, fastening it with her belt, and secured his dagger at her hip, where it belonged. She was ready to save her sister.

 

 

.

 

 

The arid, barren clay was firm under their feet, dust kicking up and dried grass flattening as they marched. Once they passed the proximate hill, they would be met with the Mantuan battalion, the height of their cerulean-and-black flags visible over the horizon.

Benvolio walked alongside the Prince’s steed, seasoned knights surrounding him. He felt out of place in such exclusive company but until Escalus’ purpose for him was revealed, he accepted the opportunity to be privy to their discussions of strategy.

“How many men have we?” Escalus asked of a confidante just as his back.

“The Capulets have ten score among them. The Montagues about that number, and the Grimaldis and Ruspolis about half of that.”

He chose to ignore the reality of their quantity, knowing they’d be met with a sea of steel after crossing the ridge. There was more tactical chatter amongst them, Benvolio’s presence all but ignored. He did not mind.

“And what do you know of our enemy, Lord Benvolio?”

He raised his head, startled by the solicitation. “I— only… I know of Paris’ deceptions within Verona.“ he offered, recouping his wits. “I know not of his military prowess, Your Grace.”

“It is not the warmonger I need advisement on, but the man himself.” A shadow hung over Escalus, the betrayal of a once-believed ally an affliction that was acutely felt. “He is a stranger to me, and you are the only one here who has seen his true self.”

“He tricked us all, my Prince.” Benvolio could not help but sympathize with him, even if his mistake in judgement nearly cost him his life. “There is no good in him. He is unscrupulous to his core, with no qualms over using anything or anyone to get what he wants.”

“Then you would agree he’d not be opposed to filling his first unit with his most expendable.”

“I think they are all equally expendable to him,” Benvolio replied, unsure of the Prince’s train of thought.

“Mantua is known for their conscription of mercenaries,” explained Escalus. The fact did not come as a surprise; it made sense that Paris would enlist those who could be lured by the prospect of a rich prize, who held no allegiance except to their own selfish gains. “It was a band of mercenaries who attacked the city, and our defenses were enough to scare them off. I suspect it is those same men who we will be confronted with first. We have enough to fight them, but after that...”

“What can be done?”

“We ride on, but for you, I have a specific task.” Escalus diverted his eyes from the landscape before them, locking his gaze with Benvolio. “Cut off the snake’s head and the body will die." Benvolio understood his meaning. "Do you accept?”

“You needn’t have to ask, Your Grace.”

As they trekked over the highland, they saw Count Paris, mounted and smug in his appraisal of Verona’s artillery. At the Prince’s command, they charged as one. The plains that lay east of city, usually quiet and undisturbed, were soon aclang with sword against sword.

Benvolio darted from one coil of fighting to the next, deflecting the relentless strikes of his opponents and shielding his comrades from their own assailants. Their gleaming armor made easy targets of the Mantuan army’s first wave. They fought with more brute strength than skill, and there Benvolio had the advantage. His movements were agile and fast, instincts honed in the volatility of bar brawls and run-ins with rowdy, contentious Capulets.

On the opposite end of the field, Damiano and Silvestro dueled in unison, their men blended and resisting the enemy’s vigor. Lord Capulet’s arms, once solid and formidable, trembled under the brunt of each hit. He spared a glance behind him, seeing no path for retreat, and he would not take it even had one materialized. The weight of his transgressions against his daughter’s memory and what remained of his family were more obtrusive than the breastplate constricting his breath.

He stumbled to the ground, but at once he was boosted back up by Lord Montague, his old rival just as drained and dirtied. “Collect yourself,” he yelled over the discord. “Only I’m allowed to bring about your demise.”

“Prepared to be disappointed,” Silvestro rebutted. “For today is not that day.” They pressed on against their aggressors, affairs of burnt cathedrals and financial competitiveness all cast aside.

For his part, Escalus held his own, still on horseback and heavily flanked by royal guards. Benvolio could not worry about the Prince, not when Paris’ whereabouts were so difficult to pin down. One minute he was in Benvolio’s purview, and the next he was elsewhere, lost in the chaos and carnage.

Sweat stung his eyes, moping the blood and filth on his face as it dripped down. All around him was a whirlwind of motion, blurs of color and metal, and this was but a portion of the coalition that awaited them.

A panicked cry drew Benvolio's attention. He spotted a boy who could not be older than five and ten struggling with a much larger foe. Fervent as he was to go after Paris, he could not desert the overpowered lad. Benvolio ran towards the boy, and with one swipe of his blade he diverted the Mantuan soldier’s wrath to him instead. His adversary snarled, emboldened by the savagery that encompassed them, and aimed a jab at Benvolio’s side, which he blocked instantly.

His following shot landed, however, his punch pummeling Benvolio’s mandible. He stumbled backward but regained his footing. He was nothing if not resilient, avoiding each attempted blow after. The man’s stamina wavered, and with a sturdy kick to the shins, he fell on the hard ground.

Benvolio went to the young man, the chipped blue paint of his shield observable at close range. Ears ringing and head pounding, Benvolio hunched over him. Upon getting a better look at the boy’s face, he was taken aback by the uncanny resemblance to Tybalt, and Benvolio was reminded that the bloodshed currently besieging them was no comparison to the destruction the citizens of Verona had committed against themselves.

He faltered as he tried to right himself, his vision blurred, and he was unable to see the same mercenary he had just subdued coming straight for him. The Capulet boy cried out again in warning, but the collision was never felt. Instead there was an outstretched pressure at Benvolio’s back and then a muffled thud as a body collapsed beside him.

“Uncle?”

Damiano sunk further down, clutching at his ribs. He struggled to breathe, a stream of blood leaking from his open mouth.

Benvolio brandished his sword and in one swift maneuver, pierced his would-be attacker’s gut.

“Uncle!?” he screamed, returning to Lord Montague’s side, his voice cracking with the effort. Veronese troops came to where they sat, protecting the pair from incursion. “Wh—why did you—”

“Because you are… family,” he struggled to say. He craned his neck, and Benvolio placed a hand at the base of his skull. He frantically searched his uncle’s person, covering his stab wound in vain. Memories of a fatal joust on the cobblestone streets of Verona sprang forth, the horrible image of Mercutio’s vacant gaze as he succumbed to his own mortal injury.

Lord Montague cupped his nephew’s cheek, halting his frenzied actions.

“It’s alright. This price has been long overdue,” he coughed, face contorted in agony. “I’m sorry... Benvolio. For everything.”

And then, the light left his eyes and Damiano went completely limp in Benvolio’s grasp. He could not help the tears from flowing as an indescribable emotion filled him. Not quite rage, or anguish, remorse or reprieve, but an amalgamation of all that and more.

He did not have the luxury to grieve. The loss reignited his determination, and on shaking legs he got up and shoved past the wrestling throng to find the one villain whose downfall would end this all.

When he found Paris again, he seemed to be fleeing from the melee. There was a limp in his stride and he was stripped of his armor, the difference in his appearance facilitating his escape. His flight was suspect, but Benvolio pursued him nonetheless.

The sounds of the battle dimmed in their intensity as he ran to the elevation of rocks Paris has disappeared behind, and as expected, he was met a saber’s tip aimed at his throat. Paris' fragility had been a ruse. Benvolio managed to dodge the weapon, and the two men squared off.

“Come back for round two?” derided Paris, but Benvolio would not be goaded. “Shame about your uncle,” he continued to provoke, obviously seeking for him to make the first move. “You’ve been following me since you stepped onto that field and now you have me. I must admit, your single-mindedness is impressive.” They circled around each other, blades swiping at every other step. “Escalus put you in charge of killing me, is that it? After all you’ve been through, you are still just his pawn.”

“Are you finished?” asked Benvolio, his pitch bored but firm, as he carefully took off his armor as well. At such close range he had no need of it, and removing it allowed for better movement.. “Have you indulged yourself to your satisfaction?”

“Ah, he speaks! It’s so refreshing to hear something other than groveling or wailing.”

“You are no more than a pathetic coward, whose own wife detests the sight of him." Paris blanched at his words, the trickster mutating into the monster.

“Don’t dare speak of my Livi—”

“She’s probably halfway to Verona by now. Our rescue party has had ample time to break her out of your base. Why else do you think we drew you and your men out here?”

“You’re a terrible liar,“ he stated cooly, as if his previous outburst had never happened.

Benvolio gave a wicked smirk, knowing it only to be a partial lie. “And you have made it a habit of not accepting the truth. Like that your baited bride shall never be able to love you after all your atrocities. Or that your character is so reviling that Juliet prefered poison over marriage to you...”

Before Benvolio’s last word could be uttered, Paris was lunging at him, his teeth bared and stare murderous. His tactic worked and now the self-proclaimed New Prince’s mind was clouded by enmity.

From his encounter with him in the city’s streets days ago, Benvolio had known Paris to be a skilled swordsman, but his temper made him impulsive, as it did with most men. The frigid composure of the traitorous mastermind was absent when confronted with the threat of losing his prized possession.

Benvolio himself was no novice. Amongst his kinsmen, he was considered the best with a sword, but the slowest to use it. He never sought out violence, but could be the bearer of it if prodded enough. And Benvolio felt as an animal finally let out from its cage, the fury of weeks spent in torment and heartbreak and suffering filling him with energy despite his rippling weariness. He knew it was just the flux of facing Paris at last and that the momentum would be temporary, but it was all he needed.

His foe lurched forward again, swinging his cutlass until it clanked with Benvolio’s. The young Montague pressed him, the metal sliding sharply away. Benvolio jumped back, almost colliding with a jagged boulder. He parried Paris’ oncoming blade, the steel singing at the contact.

With a rapid flick of his wrist, Paris sliced the young Montague’s forearm. Benvolio turned, side-stepping the Count’s next change. He bent low and cut Paris’ thigh, his opponent tumbling onto the gravel below.

Benvolio punted Paris’ sword out of his hand, then gave a strong kick — one and then a second for good measure — to his stomach. Paris scrambled for purchase as Benvolio calculatingly pointed his weapon at the Count’s nose.

They stayed there, frozen, Benvolio’s panting exhales and the clamor of the battle still being waged from afar the only sounds.

“Kill me,” Paris wheezed, flat on his back and hands held out in surrender. “It’s what you want, is it not? To put my head on a platter and gift it to your ruler?”

Benvolio was tempted to do just that, the gory sight forming in his imagination. It scared him how much gratification it brought, how much his darker impulses were thrilled by the idea. Rotting away in a dungeon cell was too generous a fate for a nefarious assassin like Paris.

 _Do it for House Montague_ , the devil in him chimed as the scene of his deceased uncle flashed before him, along with his cousin’s disheartened face; Romeo, who had only ever wanted peace among the feuding families, who himself had chosen to slay Paris in his grief over Juliet’s death.

 _For Verona_ , it rang again. Their city might’ve learned from the causality of its two most prominent heirs had Paris not fanned the flames of animosity. Hundreds would still be alive if not for the bombings and riots that were orchestrated by the man currently at his mercy. Did they not deserve retribution?

 _You are the best of them_ , said a final voice, standing out from the rest. Rosaline. He recalled how she wept as she recounted being witness to her father’s passing and the profound guilt he had felt at seeing her so affected, and how she was quick to tell him he was different; he was better. He didn’t want to be another Montague murderer.

The vision of Rosaline’s wide, pleading eyes was enough to drown out the maelstrom calling for revenge. It ended here. It ended with him.

“No,” Benvolio decided, kneeling in front of Paris. “That isn’t what I want.”

In lieu of having any bindings or manner of tying his prisoner up, he grabbed at the hilt of his sword and slammed it against Paris’ temple, knocking him out cold.

 

 

.

 

 

Rosaline walked with her head ducked down and cloak discarded. None of the men in Paris’ camp were concealed in such a manner, and the best way to camouflage herself, ironically, was to not do so. _Act natural_ , she thought, _like you’re supposed to be there._

Her journey had been blessedly uneventful, her expedient pace getting her to her destination sooner than she anticipated. Rosaline knew she would not have the benefit of the night’s coverage like Benvolio did, and so she had bided her time until the first signs dusk to sneak onto the grounds. Its perimeter was expansive but vacant, only a smattering of occupants patrolling the area. Still, like she had encountered at the subjugated Capulet house, the key points were rigorously wardened. And in one of those points, Livia was surely located.

Hand at her dagger, she sauntered with cockiness in her gait, posturing her best imitation of a masculine sensibility. Despite the semblance of casualness, her pulse was throbbing and her stomach was twisted in knots. With every passerby, a new crest of nausea would emerge. At any moment Rosaline could be exposed and there was no one for miles who could help her.

She was vulnerable and alone, and if she lingered on the notion for more than a second, she knew she would be paralyzed with dread. But then the collar of her borrowed doublet would scratch at her nape, or the tip of her knife would scrape the top of her leg, and she was reminded that she was not alone. _I have never know you to fail._ And she would not, not when her sister’s safety hung in the balance.

Incrementally, Rosaline went from tent to tent, discreetly taking out Benvolio’s sketch to compare its likeness to whichever guard she intersected. She stayed vigilant, cross-referencing this squire with that mason until, finally, she saw the man she was looking for.

Stout build, balding with a full beard. Just as Benvolio had depicted.

He stood watch over a medium-sized lodging, its style unassuming. Certainly not the first place one would guess the forthcoming Princess of Mantua to be residing in, the only special thing about it being its placement in the center of the encampment. All Rosaline needed now was a distraction. A breached stable wouldn’t be enough. It had to be something big.

She strolled to the border of the site, quelling her impulse to burst into a run. There was a shack that harbored supplies and replenishments, unattended and situated under an oak tree. Taking a pebble with a flint-like texture in hand, she began to grate it against her dagger’s blade. Sparks emitted from the impact, shriveling branches from a nearby bush served as kindling, and soon a small fire was ignited. Rosaline placed the embers by the hut, seceding from the growing blaze before she could be discovered as its culprit.

Returning to the tent with the burly sentry, she waited for the inevitable commotion. Within a few minutes, she could see the smoke rising. Several men ran towards to the shed and Rosaline acted the part of a stupefied scout, but loitered in place.

“Marco!” Someone shrieked, getting the guard’s attention. “Hurry!”

He deliberated for a bit, looking between his post and the source of the hysteria, ultimately choosing to join his countrymen once he saw the flames licking higher.

The coast was clear, and Rosaline immediately flew into the tent. Sitting there with a bewildered crinkle in her brow was Livia. She wore her Capulet servant clothes, her hair in a low braid, and she looked unharmed, at least physically.

“Livia,” Rosaline sobbed, lip quivering and knees feeling as though they might buckle from the intensity of her happiness.

“Rosaline?” Her sister’s eyes were as big as saucers, tears falling freely and face crumbling with emotion. “How are you here? How did you find me?”

The two women cradled each other, holding on tightly and rocking back and forth. “I’ll tell you later,” said Rosaline, newly cognizant of her environment. “I’m getting you out of here. We haven’t much time.”

Livia complied, stopping only briefly to yank at the tablecloth that decorated the spread of untouched cheese and fruit. She fashioned it into a shawl, concealing the notable color of her dress.

Rosaline raised the flap of the tent, signaling to Livia that it was safe to go. They only got a few feet outside before a tall shadow covered them.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

They spun around, Rosaline instinctively pushing Livia behind her. She wielded her dagger, pointing it perilously at Marco as he advanced upon them. Her weapon may have been minuscule but even if she was armed with nothing but a stick, she’d die before relinquishing her sister.

“Stay back,” she warned furiously, taking successive steps backwards and praying that more men did not become aware of her presence.

He continued to approach them menacingly, and as he erected his hand to smack her, Rosaline thrust the dagger into his palm. Marco keeled over, howling in pain and blood trickling down his arm as she extracted the blade.

“Go!” she urged Livia, the both of them running away before the whole campsite was alerted of their escape.

Before they could reach the bordering trail, a mighty stallion hindered their path. It and its rider wore orange and yellow liveries, distinctly not of Mantua.

“You are under arrest,” the masked soldier declared. “Count Paris has been captured. Surrender now.”

Rosaline could hardly believe what this anonymous man was saying. Verona had won. It was all over. _They had won!_

“We come from Verona,” she disclosed emphatically, removing her cap and gesturing for Livia to drop her shawl. “We are members of House Capulet, sir.”

The nameless officer regarded them and then, apparently deducing they were being truthful, guided his horse into a more relaxed stance.

“Come, I shall escort you back. This is no place for a lady.”

“And who might you be?” questioned Livia.

“Penlet, miss. Of the Venice Guard.”

Rosaline huffed out a jubilant laugh. Princess Isabella’s plea for aid had been fulfilled by at least one of their allies, and it was enough.

The Venetian soldiers rallied up the denizens of the camp, the pyre Rosaline ignited put out before the fire turned disastrous. The two sisters locked arms, walking together as Penlet lead them to where Verona’s army — or what remained of it — was stationed.

The course was not strenuous or overlong; it was a significantly calmer hike than the one Rosaline had taken before. She was overjoyed to be with Livia again, but her euphoria was hampered by her sister’s somber air.

“How are you?” she inquired, stroking Livia’s back comfortingly. “Did he hurt you?”

“No,” she said faintly, in a daze. “And yes.”

“Oh, Livia.” Rosaline squeezed her close. Livia’s head leaned against Rosaline’s shoulder, her frame shaking as she cried.

She could not help but feel responsible for her sister’s melancholy. Had she been forthright with her about the information she had learned in her sleuthing; if she had confided in her about the uncovered goings-on of the city, perhaps Livia might’ve known better than to trust Paris.

But no, she was not to blame, and neither was Livia. None other than Paris himself and their aunt were at fault, and now they had been apprehended and could no longer do more damage.

The sun had set by the time they arrived at the Veronese campground. The familiar palettes and banners — even the ones cast in the Montague hue — were a welcome sight as a calm washed over Rosaline. There were torches all about illuminating their path, the makeshift tents a stark contrast to the lavish ones of Mantua.

They roamed in search for a place to rest, so that Livia could properly collect herself and be attended by her own people. Up ahead, a little ways away, Rosaline noticed a band of disheveled men, survivors of the harrowing battle. Some were propped up on crutches, some had their limbs in slings, and one man, decked all in black, had a blood-stained bandage on his forearm.

“Benvolio?” she called out, and he immediately turned to her.

“Capulet?”

With a watery smile, Rosaline walked towards him and he towards her. Her stride turned into a jog and then into a sprint, breathlessly rushing at him. He only slowed to brace himself for the impact as she flew into his outstretched arms and they collided in a passionate embrace.

Benvolio clung to her, his eyes shut tight and his face buried in the hollow of her neck. Her arms were draped over his shoulders, happy sounds slipping from her without reservation, heedless of their audience. They basked in the reunion, faces pressed together, no space between their bodies.

“You’re alive,” Rosaline sighed, with so much elation he struggled to conceive he was the cause of it.

“As are you.” They disentangled themselves from one another, her curls tickling his nose. He kept his hands at her waist, not wanting to break the contact. She made no objections, instead placing her own hands to his chest.

“But not unscathed,” she remarked, tracing lightly along his latest gash. Rosaline then touched at his bruised cheek, her fingers ghosting over his split lip.

He shook his head at her assessment, not elaborating further. There was a haunted look in his eyes, and it was evident his scars ran deeper than what was on the surface.

“What are you wearing?” he asked suddenly.

Rosaline peeked down, almost forgetting the clothing she donned. “This? Just something I found. Used to belonged to some scoundrel, I think.”

Benvolio grinned, his expression turning soft. “It suits you.”

His gaze darted to her mouth as hers did to his. They leaned into each other, a hairsbreadth apart when Rosaline heard her name being shouted from afar.

Separating themselves, they saw Escalus coming over. His face lit up as he beheld her. “Thank the heavens you’re alright,” he praised. If he noticed her outfit, he did not comment on it.

Livia caught up to their gathering, politely curtsying at Benvolio in greeting, as he gave a cordial bow in return.

Rosaline observed that the Prince’s pallor and lethargy from earlier were absent, his strength steadily returning to him. Still, he looked as worn down as anyone fresh from combat would.

He pulled her into a hug of his own, and though she was glad to see him well, her reception was less enthusiastic than when she had rejoined with Benvolio, a detail she was certain had not been lost on her sister.

Escalus then took her hand, kissing her knuckles. Benvolio looked away, giving them their privacy, though she wished he wouldn’t. It was his company, along with Livia’s, that Rosaline wanted to keep. The two people who had come to mean the most to her…

The Prince guided Rosaline, and her sister as well, to what was serving as a medical tent, some distance from where they were. Benvolio watched as they went, a yearning resignation in his eyes. As they were ushered inside, Rosaline glanced back at him, mirroring his longing and hopeful that she would see him again soon.

 

.


	3. Act III

Benvolio stood in the palace waiting area, pacing along the marble floor. He had been offered a chair by one of the servants but did not take it, and he wondered if there would ever come a time when he’d feel completely at ease on the royal premises. 

A week had passed since their victory against Mantua, and Verona was still in recovery. Homes were rebuilt, businesses restored, and there had been no sightings of escalating disagreements or reports of altercations between the houses Montague and Capulet. A miracle, truly. 

The most violent occurrence had been the execution of Count Paris, and even that was only made known to the people by way of a royal proclamation. His death had been private, conducted in the palace’s uppermost tower with only the Prince and his closest counsel to bear witness. If Paris had wanted a spectacle to be made of his martyrdom, he did not get it. Gone were the days of public executions and sanctioned bloodlust, and Benvolio was glad to have been the last instance of it.

“His Highness will see you now,” said Mateo, leading Benvolio to Escalus’ quarters.

He smoothed out the starched material of his coat, dark gray flourishes embroidered on matte black leather with hints of red stitching at the seams. Much more extravagant as his usual attire, but then, Benvolio not same man in a number of ways. And though the dark colors were a staple of his wardrobe, they had taken on another meaning in light of his recent loss.

Two days after the battle, a funeral had been held for his fallen uncle. All of Verona was in attendance at the Prince’s behest, to pay their respects on behalf of Damiano’s sacrifice. The grand church had been filled with noblemen and women from all factions regardless of past prejudices, united in mourning. 

Benvolio himself was still processing the circumstances of his uncle’s demise. Their dynamic had been a tumultuous one to say the least; at times, after Romeo and Mercutio were deceased, he had felt his caretaker was his only ally, and at others, his greatest antagonist. But for all the torment and degradation he had been subjected to for most of his life, Benvolio had never wished for his tormentor’s death. His exile, yes; for him to be imprisoned for his crimes and stripped of his title, of course. But not this.  

He had wanted to take back his house under better, more honorable conditions, but the reality remained that both men achieved their own form of liberty: Benvolio from his uncle’s tyranny, and Damiano from permanent disgrace. 

After the burial, Friar Lawrence had come to him, confessing his long-established affiliation with the elder Montague. That it was he who had unknowingly supplied his uncle with the means to poison Benvolio’s father, and that it was Damiano who arranged for Juliet and Romeo to wed in secret. The Friar’s timing was impeccable, as always. It mattered not, for the unfolding of events could not be changed.  

This whole chapter of the Capulet-Montague saga had begun with a funeral, and it seemed fitting that it would end with one too. 

Mateo stepped aside as they reached Escalus’ room, opening the door and announcing Benvolio’s arrival. The Prince thanked his attendant, and then they were alone. 

He knew not why he had been summoned, and Benvolio felt a wave of  déjà vu at being there, standing before his ruler in his bedchamber. There were no shackles this time or cause to plead for his innocence, and, he hoped, no throwing of punches either. 

“As I’m sure you know, your house is in need of a leader,” Escalus said, bypassing any chit-chat or small talk. He knew Benvolio did not care about unnecessary formalities. “As the reinstated Montague heir, it stands to reason that leader should be you.” 

Of this, Benvolio was keenly aware. In the aftermath of their conflict, the city had deferred to the Prince’s judgement on any and every matter. There were no siloed parties or claims for power. But he knew that could not remain the case, and the great houses would have to eventually conduct their affairs without direct royal intervention.

“If Your Grace does not think me deserving of the position—”

“No, I do,” Escalus corrected kindly. “And in fact, you have been unanimously chosen to be the acting Lord Montague.” 

The news had a stronger effect on him than he thought it would. Benvolio had never sought his family’s approval, and his associated kin even less so; he had never been good enough for them and so gave up on ever trying to be. But Benvolio could not deny it consoled him to know he was deemed worthy and capable. He had seen firsthand the effects of an unfit and uncaring figurehead, and he would strive to succeed where his predecessors had failed.  

Apparently noticing the depth of his reaction, Escalus continued. “You are not who I thought you were, Benvolio, and I am very glad for it. It is a relief to know I was wrong to believe you a traitor to the crown, and that Rosaline’s virtue remains unruined.”

“No man could ever ruin her,” Benvolio responded. “She is the wisest, bravest, best of ladies, whose value does not lie in the actions of others.” 

A strange, unreadable look passed over Escalus’ face, like he was really seeing Benvolio for the first time. Like some important truth had been revealed to him.

There was a bit of tension at Benvolio’s statement, which was promptly dissipated with a conciliatory nod from the Prince.  

“As lord of your house,” said Escalus, bringing the topic back on track. “I’d like for you to pay Venice a visit, as a show of appreciation for their support. I have a carriage prepared to take you there. It can leave before day's end, if you’re amenable.”

Benvolio had no experience in diplomacy, but if his sovereign saw a use for him, he was powerless to refuse. “Of course, Your Grace.”

With a deferential bow, he made to leave the room, his instructions clear. 

“Verona owes you a large debt,” said the Prince. “If you ever need anything, you have but to ask.”

His hand still on the brass doorknob, Benvolio turned back towards Escalus. “Actually, I do have one request.”

 

 

.

 

 

The library was filled with the warm rays of the afternoon sun, and Rosaline was laid out on a patterned chaise, thoroughly engrossed in a book. Livia sat in a neighboring bench, equally as preoccupied with repairs to a glittery ball gown she had not put on in many years. 

“Do you think I’ll ever get a chance to wear this?” the younger Capulet asked, raising the altered neckline to the light, angling it this way and that to test its symmetry.  

“I’m sure there will be,” Rosaline replied. It made her happy to see Livia take pleasure in her old hobbies, to find suitable distraction from the sadness of the past week.  

The day of Paris’ execution had been an excruciating one, for Rosaline could not bear to see her sister in such distress. While she had known it was the expected cost of his myriad transgressions, his flight from this world left a hole in Livia’s heart. 

“Well, when your ladyship is invited to the next banquet, you must take me with you,” she joked, thread and needle back at work.  

“There is no one else I’d rather go with,” promised Rosaline. 

“Not even the Montague?”

She was in a mischievous mood today, her sister. Ever since that night in the camp, there was a curiosity in the way Livia scrutinized her, a poorly contained craving to pry and know all about Rosaline’s shocking attachment to Benvolio. And Rosaline indulged that curiosity every now and again, telling her of their adventures throughout the city, their trip to the monastery, and their brief stay at a farmer’s inn, if only because their chatter on the subject had become the rare exceptions to Livia’s depression. 

“Have you heard from him?” 

“Not since the last time you asked,” Rosaline said with a playful annoyance. Though if she was honest, she did not take well to their lack of communication. 

It was silly, she knew, to expect they would see each other with the same frequency as when they’d first been betrothed, especially not with so much reconstruction that had to be done. Their closeness had been necessitated by their arrangement, and then by their begrudging partnership. Yet somehow along the way, Rosaline had come to rely on his presence; had welcomed and depended on his friendship, for there was no one else — save for her sister — who understood her so well. 

And Benvolio had his own personal grief to deal with. 

During his uncle’s funeral, Rosaline had looked on as Benvolio was poised at first pew. His face had been downcast for the majority of the ceremony, his eyes blank and lost in thought as the late Lord Montague was eulogized. Rosaline knew of the man’s sins against his nephew, but she did not doubt Benvolio mourned him. As the ranking lady of her house — her aunt set to live in a dungeon for the rest of her days — Rosaline had been in attendance along with Lord Capulet, and all she had wanted to do was stand beside Benvolio, to comfort him in such a difficult time. But she could not, for even though there was a truce between their families, peace was a delicate thing, and Rosaline did not wish to be the source of any disruptions to the service. 

Rosaline missed Benvolio, plain and simple. But perhaps he did not feel the same. Had their time apart renewed his contemptuous sentiments towards her, all too eager to be freed of her company? Or had her distance made him think her indifferent? 

“And Escalus? Has he not come to call on you?” 

Rosaline let out a loaded breath at Livia’s inquiry. After the Capulet palazzo had been reclaimed from Paris’ agents, they — Silvestro included — had busied themselves with setting the house to rights once more, and this endeavor had been benefited by the new furniture, expensive curtains, and hired help, courtesy of the Prince and Princess. 

It was obvious Escalus no longer felt the pressure of his obligations so acutely and relished in the ability to spoil her and outwardly demonstrate his partiality. But Rosaline cared not for such displays, and with every package and parcel, her disappointment in the fact that he seemed not to know her at all only grew. 

A loud knock at the door interrupted her musings. At Livia’s admittance, their maid entered the library, a silver tray balanced on her palm. On it was a folded note with a large wax seal. 

“Letter for you, mistress,” said the girl, leaving the sisters to their activities once Rosaline picked up the missive. 

“It’s from the palace. The Prince wishes to see me.” 

“Speaking of,” muttered Livia, visibly impressed by her powers of divination.

Rosaline departed for the palace soon thereafter, and was benevolently greeted by the royal guards when she got there. They escorted her to the central garden, where, with arms folded behind his back and appearing as a celestial being aglow in the sunlight, stood Escalus.

“You’re here,” he hailed, his expression cheerful and unburdened. “Please, walk with me.” 

Rosaline gave a quick smile, looping her arm through his bent elbow. The flowers in the garden were in full bloom and expertly maintained. There wasn’t a dying petal or overgrown stem in sight. It was gorgeous here, like an oasis in the middle of a hectic, bustling dessert.  

“Did you like the tapestries?” he inquired amicably, referring to the latest gift he had bestowed upon her family. All the way from Milan, if she remembered correctly.

“Yes, they were lovely,” she said, and she did genuinely appreciate the gesture. It occurred to Rosaline how few conversations like this Escalus must have. To not hear a complaint or issue a command, but to just… talk. 

“Good. The heroine of Verona deserves nothing short of her heart’s desire.” 

They were treading on complicated ground but Rosaline could not bring herself to rebuff his compliments. Seeing him like this, so jovial and relaxed reminded her of the man she had known in her youth; the man who would lurk outside her balcony and coquet her until she shooed him away.

“I have a matter I wish to discuss with you,” he said, and Rosaline felt her stomach drop. “Do not worry, it has nothing to do with politics or the like.” Her shoulders loosened at that. While it was not that which made her anxious, she was contented by his assurance. 

“What about?”

“Isabella would like to extend an invitation for Livia to join us at court, as one of her ladies-in-waiting,” he explained, and Rosaline perked up at the idea. “But I know your sister is in a frail state. I would not want to cause her stress. Her status would be restored to her, of course, and her dowry—”

Rosaline stopped their strolling and put her hand to his bicep, beaming at him. “I think that would make her very happy,” she said, near to tears. “Thank you.” It was not a cure to Livia’s grief, but she knew the appointment would lift her sister’s spirits immensely, and for that she’d be eternally grateful. 

“Consider it done,” he declared, moving the both of them to the edge of a grand fountain. He bid for them to sit on the stone brim, the sounds of the flowing, translucent water rhythmic and soothing. 

Escalus twisted his position to face her and regarded her affectionately. 

“I must admit, I had my own reasons for agreeing to Isabella’s suggestion. I had hoped to give thee cause to visit the palace more often.” Rosaline could not look at him, instead focusing on the vibrant roses a few feet from her. “I have missed you.”

“And I, you,” she said placatingly. It was not her intention to be so standoffish, but she read his intentions clearly. This was not a decision she wished to confront, though she knew she could not avoid it forever.

“Then would you accept me, fair Rosaline, and consent to becoming my wife?”

She glanced at Escalus’ expectant expression, at the man she’d longed to marry for most of her life. Her first love, whom she adored since they were children. But they were not children anymore. 

Rosaline recalled the question Isabella had posed to her the night of the attempt on the Prince’s life. She had been unsure of her answer then, but she knew it now.

“I cannot.” She watched her words sink in, the wistful acceptance in his features as, for the second time, she had rejected his proposal. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said graciously, and she noted he was not as devastated as she expected he might be. 

Rosaline did not think herself some siren or lofty goddess who inspired obsession wherever she went, but for a man who had professed his love more than once, he took her response considerably well.

“I was aware of the risk,” he said, fortitude slowing returning. "And that there may be no going back after how I have wronged you. It's natural you'd  had a change of heart. Towards another.”

Rosaline’s eyes widened fractionally, taken aback by his words. “Escalus…”

“You once told me I made you a friend of your enemy, but it appears to be more than that.” 

With a genuine tenderness, Rosaline placed her hand on the back of his, resting them on the cool granite. She would not refute his assertion for it rang true. “I hope—” she started to say, chastising herself for how inconsiderate she knew she was about to sound— “we can still be friends.”

“Always.”

Rosaline got up from her perch, Escalus following close behind. They did not speak as they went up the garden’s promenade and to the palace archway.

“There was something else,” he said suddenly, pausing on a low step. “Your house, the one you grew up in. Why did you not tell me it was still intact?” 

She startled at his query, walking back to where he was. “I… did not think it was of importance to you,” she replied slowly. What was the abandonment of an ancestral dwelling to the concerns of the crown? “Why do you—”

“It was brought to my attention earlier today, and I wanted to tell you it’s yours. By royal decree, it has been restored to you.”

Rosaline drew him into a hug at that, smiling broadly and sniffing to keep from crying. She thanked him for the cherished deed, and after a bittersweet interval, they parted on the best of terms.

 

 

.

 

 

The streets of Verona were quiet, no longer plagued by danger and chaos, and as such, Rosaline decided to forego the transport that had been offered to her by Escalus. The paths were still crowded by merchants and venders, and there were still many citizens parading about as would be the case with any city, but there was a distinct tranquility that she might never get used to.

It was so tranquil that, without acknowledging it, Rosaline had wandered into Montague territory. But though she wore a cobalt cape over a navy dress, she received no embittered sneers or vulgar taunts. In fact, no one seemed to notice her at all, and she could feel only tangible harmony.

She slowed her stride as she spotted a royal carriage up ahead, its driver leaning against the giant wheel. It was parked outside a familiar chapel,  the place where Juliet had begged her to abscond to in the middle of the night what seemed like a lifetime ago. 

As she neared it, Rosaline spied a hefty chest and discarded cape, its fabric a deep red and adorned with the Montague crest, and she smirked at the evidence of his being there, too.

Proceeding to the chapel’s gate, she marveled at the tall, pale columns and the details of its statues stationed out front. This shrine was so different during the day, so much more majestic when not obscured by the darkness and the fear of being caught.

Once inside, Rosaline walked leisurely down the aisles, past the rounded pillars and thin processional torches, the clicking of her heels echoing along the walls. And there, at the base of the altar, was Benvolio.

He shifted around, alerted to her proximity as her steps grew louder. 

“Rosaline,” he sighed, her name like a prayer. “What are you doing here?”

“Just checking in on my beloved,” she quipped, doing her best imitation of his low timbre. Her teasing earned a laugh from him, and she found she quite liked the sound. It was so much simpler to be flirtatious when it just a game of pretend, but now that she meant it in earnest, she felt nervous and inexperienced. 

“Well, I’m afraid you’re in the wrong place then,” he bantered in return. “It’s only me here.”  And oh how she wanted to blurt out that it was him she had been searching for.

“I did not expect to have found you here, of all places.”

“I’m just as surprised I didn’t burst into flames myself,” Benvolio said in jest, something about Rosaline making him act as a fool, but he always managed to put her at ease. He sobered, however, as he looked to the sacristy with its numerous candles and painted saints. “My valet rode past, and I thought of when I had come here with Romeo.”

“Aye,” she added, approaching the altar until she was right next to Benvolio. “Same as I, with Juliet.”

Their cousins’ elopement had been magical, she could recognize in retrospect. The atmospheric, flickering light; the towering vaulted ceiling; the purity of the love that emanated from the recent newlyweds, enchantedly deaf to the protestations of their witnesses.

The chapel was much brighter now, in the luminescence of the afternoon, but not as reverently preserved with the Friar and his fellow clergymen no longer there to attend to it. Yet the burning candles that surrounded them still produced a calming radiance, and the open space enhanced its serenity.

“They had always believed that a lasting peace was possible,” said Rosaline. “If only they could’ve seen their dream come to fruition.” 

“Perhaps they _can_ see it,” he offered, then after an extended pause. “We’ve made them proud, have we not?”

“I think so.” Rosaline swallowed the lump in her throat, moved by the notion that Juliet and Romeo were basking in their heavenly respite. “We’ve done quite a lot since, for them, and Verona.”

“Indeed we have,” Benvolio agreed, humor in his tone. He turned to her, and she turned as well until the two of them were face to face. “We stopped our families’ feuding…”

“Exposed a crazed conspirator…”

“And, most important of all, we don’t have to get married.” 

They both grinned at that, their priorities seeming so frivolous after all they had been through.

“We don’t have to get married,” Rosaline parroted, her voice like velvet and then, more softly: “Unless… we wanted to.”

His heart raced, his brow wrinkling at her disorientating implication. He scanned the expanse of her face, darting from her full mouth, to her wavy and mussed, pinned-up hair, to the rich brown of her eyes. _Had she really said…_  

“It was you who told Escalus about my family’s house and requested that he grant it to me,” she went on. She knew it to be true, too perceptive to have not put the pieces together from what the Prince had divulged. And Benvolio was one of only two people who were aware of her lingering attachment to it. Though it was not a question, she still waited for Benvolio’s reply.

“It means a great deal to you, and ’tis something I’m sure he’d’ve done himself. He’d do anything for you… as would I.”

Rosaline took a step closer, lips parted invitingly, and it was then that Benvolio realized how wrong he had been about where her affections lied. With all the presents and ardor that the Prince had showered upon House Capulet — upon _her_ — he had assumed she was being courted; that she had made her choice. But Rosaline Capulet never ceased to astonish or amaze him. 

“Why did you do it?” 

Rosaline’s gaze was warm and trusting, the firelight dancing across her skin. She had bared herself to him; allowed herself to be vulnerable, as Benvolio had with her, and he swore she had never looked more beautiful.  

“You know why, Capulet.” Rosaline held her breath, her look pleading with him to confirm what she yearned to hear. “When you love someone, you only ever want them to be happy.” 

Rosaline gasped, the corners of her mouth quirking up in elation. They stared at each other, intense and longing, both shuddering with emotion and anticipation, until finally they surged forward and kissed.

Rosaline hung her arms around his shoulders, and Benvolio tugged on her waist with one hand while he held her face with the other. Their lips were gentle but insistent as they collided in languid presses and pulls, weeks of pent up desire melding with the depth of their devotion. He  felt heat rush through his entire being, his body flush with hers, their movements not limited by cell bars in dingy a prison, but allowed to fully convey their passion. 

Benvolio thumb stroked her cheek, his fingertips tangled in her hair, as Rosaline’s palms ran down his chest, fisting his jacket. She tilted her head, nose brushing his as she deepened the kiss, Rosaline’s mind in a blissful haze.  

Parting for a brief moment, she arched back so she could look into Benvolio’s hazel eyes, cupping his face. “I love you, too,” she whispered, before he captured her mouth once again. 

Eventually they separated, foreheads pressed together and still panting as they were reluctant to release the other from their grasp,   

“Where is it that you’re going?” Rosaline asked, remembering the carriage that awaited him outside. 

“To Venice, on royal business,” he answered, tucking a loose strand back into place. “Will you come with me?” 

She exhaled exaggeratingly, the effect botched by her uncontrollable smile. “If I must. You wouldn’t survive a day without me."

“Then I hope I should never be without you.”

Together, they left the chapel, hands laced as they went and walking as one. In the end, Capulet and Montague would be united at last, for love had succeeded where violence had failed.

 

.


End file.
